The Name of Death
by WolvesTail
Summary: Kvothe's been surviving on the streets of Tarbean for almost three years, but when that comes to an abrupt and bloody end, he learns a name far superior to that of the wind.
1. Zahyrscaleon

Kvothe crouched atop the city streets of Tarbean, nestled next to a chimney and the crook of a conjoining building. The morning sun was just beginning to fully emerge from the horizon, swabbing the gray smokestack of a city in a russet light. He could almost pretend to find it beautiful, if not for rancid smells from the city or the wind chill robbing everything of warmth or snow making every rooftop too slick to walk across.

Shivering lightly, he scrambled down the rough brick building, landing unsteadily on a snowy walkway. Skittering around people, weaving in and out of alleys and shortcuts long since scarred into his mind from past mistakes, he began to make his way to Dockside. Kvothe _needed_ to learn what Skarpi knew of the Chandrian, of those who had murdered his family.

But travelling Dockside was dangerous, being territory of Pike, who would kill Kvothe if given a chance. As risky as it was, he had been careful, only breathing a sigh of relief when his feet stood firmly inside the dingy bar where Skarpi told his stories. Not wanting to interrupt in the middle of a story, Kvothe resigned himself to wait, and allowed himself to become enraptured with the tale while pressing himself into the nearest corner.

It was an unfortunate development that halfway through, several cloaked men revealed themselves as priests and attempted to arrest Skarpi for heresy. Uncertain as how to react, Kvothe debated about what to do until Skarpi shouted, "Kvothe, don't concern yourself! Just run!" As though possessed, Kvothe pelted out through the front entrance and across the faded wooden planks of the docks. Only once he was in an alleyway did he allow himself to look back.

Taking in the sight of the small bar in the distance, he failed to hear something heavy and sharp swing down to smash his head. Crying out, he stumbled forward, head spinning from the impact, when it slammed against his head again. The cold street reached up to meet him and he collided with fallen snow. Vision swimming, he tried to crawl forwards as the tang of blood whet his mouth. He felt someone walk over him. Forcing his eyes up, he barely made out the figure, as it sneered down at him raising a large, half broken brick.

He tried to plea, to beg, to get up and run, but he could do none of those things. Staring in mute horror, he could do nothing but watch, bleary-eyed, as the rock came down, and the small light he carried within him flickered out. It was not slow, nor was it precise, but the instant the weight caved in his skull, Kvothe died.

The darkness swirled around him, coddling him like a child and he knew, in that unexplainable kind of way, that he was dead. Kvothe felt terrible having messed up and gotten himself killed in an alley because he had been too stupid to check. No, not stupid, but careless or maybe panicked would have fit better. "Hardly seems to matter now," he thought, shifting in the darkness. It tightened around him not uncomfortably, as though afraid of jostling him.

Intrigued for the first time since- he blinked as thoughts about his family brought a jarring pain, and suddenly guilt swelled inside him. Still, a smile graced his lips as he could finally get to see them again, even if he had let them all down by not avenging them. Although, one question needlessly teased at his mind, "where are they?" Looking around was pointless, there was no light, and nothing tangible he could really feel other than the tatters of darkness that clung to him like silken cloth.

Studying it closer he tried to figure out what it was he was half dunked in. It was neither solid, nor liquid, almost gaseous but too stable. He hadn't intended to, but the more he thought about it the more he compared it to threads of cloth, or of a web. Fear briefly stuck his heart at that thought, of being trapped in a spider's massive web, but it dissipated when he remembered he was already dead. Kvothe laughed, being dead took the bite out of a lot of worries he had been unknowingly entertaining while alive.

The darkness writhed at him, and he felt himself sink a bit lower into it. It was warm, and he felt no inclination to pull himself free. Still, were anyone else's mind faced with this, they might have been satisfied to just soak up the warmth, but Kvothe had always been different. His name meant _to know_, and it pricked at him like a stubborn thorn that he did not know what he was leaning into.

Looking down, he let himself think about it, examine its every quality. Well, as best as he could in the total absence of light. Factors and answers flew across his mind, racing down branches of thought to try and deduce what he wished to know. Being half submerged was an unexpected help, as though feeling the fibrous texture lent to his thoughts, the smell of it too, and staring into the nothingness. It was too much, too fast. Before he could help himself, Kvothe found something bubbling just under the surface of his thoughts, something he wanted desperately. He didn't even register what he had spoken, knowing beyond reason the meaning behind it, "ZAHYRSCALEON." The darkness around him stilled and he felt it pull away from him, slinking as though subdued or put out. Without it to hold him up, he fell, screaming in the silence.

The return to consciousness was horribly painful, and he let out a sharp gasp as his entire body ached. Despite the stiffness running through him, he felt some wet warmth underneath him, and he wondered if his death had just been a dream. When he finally cracked open his eyes, he saw more than he felt the blood pooling around him. It was everywhere, saturating the snow with an ugly brownish pink.

Shivering, his mind was assaulted by memories he had tried to bury. He needed to get away from here. Feet moving sluggishly, he was able to right himself into standing after a moment. It was only then that he noticed he had been relieved of his ratty shirt. Blood had soaked his front but hadn't reached down to his pants, which his mugger had been kind enough to leave. At least he had his dignity, if not looking like he had freshly murdered someone.

It was nighttime already, he had lost a full day to stupidity. He grumbled to himself uncharitably, as he checked over himself for injuries. Where he expected gashes or punctures to be, there were none. It disturbed him. The size of the brick, the force applied to his person, there should have been _something_. Maybe he hadn't imagined his death after all. He found he could recall his dream easily, unlike true dreams, and there was no way he would be unscathed after being assaulted.

The need to know filled him again, to validate his theory. A desire to speak overwhelmed his senses and he spoke without meaning to, "ZAHYRSCALEON." It was akin to the magic Kvothe had witnessed as a child, but unlike when Abenthy had called upon the wind, Kvothe had called on something else. Every nearby shadow visibly writhed, and every nearby light dimmed dramatically. His breathing stopped as the tension built, and he waited for it to break. Nothing happened. Confused, Kvothe glanced at the lights, at the shadows again. Disappointment flashed through him, he had expected something flashier than that.

Summoned by his thoughts the shadows peeled away from their rightful places, allowing light to fall where none should, and pulled along the ground and down walls towards him. They weren't smooth like he'd expected, but jagged, like they were just strips torn from a larger whole. The darkness made no sound as it moved and Kvothe wasn't sure if that made it more or less unnerving. Splintering into tendrils, his own shadow reached out to connect to the outstretched darkness.

Kvothe took in all the shadows spiraling out from where he stood, conjoined in tattered looking strands, swaying in a breeze that did not truly exist. Watching them move, he just stood there, taken with _knowing_ he had been the one to make it happen. The sound of a glass bottle being thrown into a bin jarred him from the reverie, and panic seized him. He couldn't afford to get caught looking like _this_. If a priest, hell if _anyone_ found him controlling this, they might kill him. His thoughts drifted back to the story Skarpi had told, of how the demon Encanis had been burned alive. Fear directing him, he desperately willed the shadows to recede, and panicked further when they didn't.

"ZAHYRSCALEON." Shadows fled from his command, resuming their natural forms, and the nearby lights glowed brightly as though freed from a spell. Kvothe knew it was not sympathy he had just learned. This was true magic, something he had wished for almost his entire life. His feet moved, and he was on his way back to his little hideaway, while he pondered. This power changed everything.

* * *

Author's Note: After reading 50ish chapters into Name of the Wind I couldn't stop myself from giving life to a little au baby. This is likely going to remain a one shot, although I do have a few ideas rattling around that I might expand on later, I don't have an over arching plot since I haven't actually read the entire series yet. Thanks for reading, and I hope I managed to kill a few minutes of boredom for you.


	2. Hillside

The more Kvothe pondered what to do, the more he noticed things. His memories had returned, and with them came a semblance of intelligence that he had been sorely lacking. Blinking, Kvothe called the power once more, "Zahyrscaleon." The wind stilled, and sounds of the city became muffled. His shadow spiraled up and wrapped around him like tattered cloth. The feelings of cold and hunger that had lingered at the edges of his mind receded completely and Kvothe couldn't help but to marvel at the feeling. The sun had just begun to rise; he had a while before it was going to be warm enough to venture.

The warmth and comfort were things Kvothe couldn't tolerate well, and he found himself unwilling to move, letting himself fall into the feelings. He felt panic soar within him when he realized that the sun was setting already, and that the darkness around him felt, not precisely constricting, but like he was becoming a part of it. It was unnerving. "Zahyrscaleon." The shadows reluctantly trudged away from Kvothe, and his vision swam as the freezing cold and piercing _hunger_ assaulted him anew. It seemed that although he would be safe from starving while the shroud was around him, he would be vulnerable the moment he relinquished it.

He stood up from his crouch and noted how sore his muscles were. The white snow of winter was still visible and mixed into a grey slush on the streets below as night fell, but Kvothe's hunger outweighed his need for warmth. Looking down at himself, it was easy to see that a blood soaked Kvothe would make a poor beggar or thief, so he called the darkness to shroud him again, making a simple black cloak that wrapped around him. He wondered what people would think of his appearance, but he had few alternatives. Grabbing a handful of his iron shims, he slid down the building towards the nearby inn to buy food and warmth.

Stepping inside the inn, it was clear that it was busier than usual as the harsh winter persuaded mercenaries and bandits alike to move into towns for warmth. Still, if he kept to himself, he reasoned that he would go relatively unnoticed. Sliding up to the counter he spoke up to the shop keep, "excuse me, how much for a meal?"

Yet, the man made no move to acknowledge him. Annoyed, but having somewhat expected this, Kvothe produced a drab and waved it in front of the man's face to show he could pay. When the man made no reaction to that either, Kvothe's curiosity began to outweigh his irritation.

He wondered if the man was being particularly dense or if… could the man not see or hear him? Looking down at his person, Kvothe realized that he'd forgotten to take off the shroud when he'd entered. Had it made him invisible? His question was more than answered when someone sat down where Kvothe was sitting, literally preoccupying the same space. A chill filled Kvothe, and he briefly wondered if he was a ghost, when the woman who had sat down quickly rose again while shouting out, "damn Horace! That's got to be the coldest seat in the whole inn! What'd you do, cushion it with ice!?"

Looking over, the shop keeper, Horace apparently, walked over and pressed his hand on the seat, moving through Kvothe as he did so, and recoiled, "well damn if you're not wrong, wander what's wrong with the darst thing?"

He moved to inspect it closer, and Kvothe felt no need to let the man stare through him and moved over behind the counter. From there it was easy to swipe a few rolls and even score a mug of warm mead. No one appeared the wiser, and Kvothe walked over to a corner to listen in on some of the conversations circling the inn.

Mind swimming while he ate, Kvothe knew he could get used to being a ghost. Warmth at all hours of the day, unlimited food supplies if he didn't take so much that the innkeeper became suspicious, an easy living. Smiling, Kvothe settled in and allowed himself to become enraptured with the stories around the inn. It was only when he started to drift off in a light sleep that he felt the power wane. He wouldn't be alive if he hadn't developed quick reflexes, and Kvothe snapped awake when he felt the darkness begin to recede. It swarmed back at full strength immediately, and he let out a shaky breath.

Thinking about it for a moment, Kvothe realized that the power would leave him should he fall asleep. The happy life he'd been entertaining suddenly flickered out of existence, and he found himself almost sulking.

"Although," he thought, "many of the roads that were closed to me, are now open." Standing to full attention he strode out of the inn with purpose, his thoughts focused on Hillside's riches.

Several brightly colored shops had plenty of money, but Kvothe frustratingly found few opportunities to pilfer much of anything. The stores themselves used registers to store the money in, and someone was always within viewing distance. Unless he wanted to risk someone seeing a drawer open of its own accord, Kvothe had to look elsewhere. Pockets turned out to be just as bad, as it was, anytime he got close enough to nab something the person was already striding away from him. It seemed the power that wrapped around him was extremely cold to other people, much to Kvothe's annoyance.

It wasn't until inspiration struck and he thought of another way he could try using the darkness. "Zahyrscaleon." Somehow, whispering the word felt wrong, and he found his control was muffled, but it would suit his purposes for a test. He willed the tendrils of shadow to snatch the money from a nearby purse. Disappointment and frustration flared in him when the tendrils passed through the purse as intangible as thoughts. Yet, when something hard and dense materialized in his pocket, Kvothe found himself confused. He pulled out two silver jots and felt his breathing constrict and become rapid.

His eyes flew up, but no one was aware of him, and he already knew how the money was with him. The tendrils had disappeared it somehow from the purse, and appeared it in his pockets. Swallowing richly, Kvothe stumbled away from Hillside, debating with himself over the discovery. It was an unheard-of amount of money, the likes he hadn't seen since the troupe. Pulling himself together, he looked at the shops and brightly lit homes as an idea began to form in his head. The Chandrian weren't the only ones he wanted to see fall.

Firstly, he needed to learn as much as he could about the Chandrian. He needed a place with ten thousand books. Thoughts spinning, Kvothe meandered down the streets. Access to the archives, that could only be achieved if he became a student of the University. Wait. He glanced down again. Could he do it using only Zahyscaleon? If it didn't work, he'd be banned for life assuming he wouldn't be outright killed. So, try for student first, then if all hell breaks loose, cheat. Seemed simple enough.

Second, he needed to change Tarbean. The loathing he'd been scarcely aware of bubbled up as he looked at the contrast between the wealthy and poor districts. It was unfair, and worse, the more Kvothe observed, the more _frivolous_ the reasons appeared to be. Toy makers and craftsman, politicians and representatives, concubines and companions, it seemed that everyone living in Hillside could afford to help, but they didn't want to. They enjoyed their surplus of wealth, of being better off than those in Waterside. Feelings boiled underneath the surface of Kvothe's mind, and he hadn't even been fully conscious when he realized the darkness was poised in a threatening manner.

The wind had died all around, the lights flickered unnaturally, the denizens of Hillside looked around wide-eyed with fear and trepidation, like prey sensing the murderous intent of a predator. Something was pushing Kvothe, urging him to complete the command, to _murder_ all the inhabitants nearby. He thought he'd shiver in revulsion, he thought he'd turn his head, disgusted at his feelings, but Kvothe considered it. Tension twisted the air, and Kvothe decided to spare them when a child's crying broke the silence that had suffocated the unsuspecting people. Some were innocent, and they didn't deserve to be torn from their families, even if their families were being blatantly callous.

A new plan formed in Kvothe's mind as he moved throughout several stores, skimming money off the top of the registers with the shadows. If he couldn't erase the gap between the wealthy and the impoverished, then he'd simply raise the living standards of the impoverished until they were decent. Caught up in his thoughts as he was, he barely noticed how much money he'd collected just by scraping over the top wealth. When he finally calmed down, and found himself in Trapis' basement, he felt a little guilty at the treasure trove that lined his pockets. The total worth was close to a gold jot.

Nonetheless, he knew better than to flaunt the true total of how much he got ahold of. When Trapis came down, Kvothe almost forgot to rescind the darkness that had hidden him. The hunger wasn't as prevalent this time, having eaten earlier. Before he could speak up Trapis beat him to it, "are you aware that you are soaked in blood?" A sharp blush spread through Kvothe's cheeks, but he hurried to give Trapis a silver talent as thanks. Trapis' eyes turned suspicious for the first time since Kvothe had met the man, "did you commit murder for this?"

Kvothe had to backpedal quickly as he spoke, "no! I- I, it's complicated but I didn't kill for this, or for these," extending his hand again, Kvothe handed him three more talents worth. Trapis' eyebrows rose to new heights even as Kvothe hurried to explain himself, "I got it through unfair means, but I want you to use it to help the others. Maybe even, make a family out of them so I have somewhere to come back to, yeah?" Trapis let out a shrill laugh, a coarse sound from disuse, and nodded in an appreciative way. He didn't even pry for more details about how Kvothe had gotten the wealth, he just vanished them under his long sleeves and carried on as usual.

"Where will you be going to return here from?" Trapis asked casually as he stroked one of the sleeping children's hair.

"The University, I'm going to learn magic there. When I'm finished, I'll come back, I promise," Kvothe swore that he'd make it right here; he'd change it so that no one would have to suffer like he had again. Trapis' smile turned into a grin and he gave a genuine, if quiet farewell to Kvothe.

Leaving the cellar behind, Kvothe made his way toward the inn. He was in desperate need of a bath. He'd had to wash the blood off his chest as well as he could manage with the slush outside; better to look downright dirty than to have recently murdered someone. Paying for the bath upfront felt positively liberating, until Kvothe realized his lack of clothes. He tied a towel around his waist, grabbed his purse of money, and looking every bit the noble's son prepared himself for the speech he'd soon have to make. Pulling Zahyscaleon to him, he walked to the clothing store unnoticed. He let the shadows recede as he entered the store, loudly banging the door on entry.

The show he performed on that poor clothing store would have been a hilarious addition to a stage of comedy. As it was, he fooled the clerk with a story about a whore stealing his clothes and was appropriately outfitted with brand new ones. Feeling uncharacteristically generous, Kvothe even paid the man a proper amount which he'd been set not to do at first. Noble's sons weren't supposed to be charitable, after all. Kvothe found himself touched by an old shoe salesman, whose keen perception led to Kvothe admitting his homeless nature. A pair of relatively new shoes adorned his feet, fresh clothes on his back, and enough money to make a difference jingled in his purse. He felt satisfied for the first time in a long time.

Acquiring safe passage via a traveling group was easy, and he found himself more outgoing that he would have considered himself capable. Things were going to be different.

* * *

Author's Note: Okay, so I ended up with a few more ideas with where this story could go, but I might try reading through the rest of the books before I go further. Thanks for reading!


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